DarkSector: the Lotus's Venom
by Jacob R. Dring
Summary: A retelling of the recent video-game "Dark Sector," this "Lotus's Venom" follows Hayden Tenno on his path of adventure in Lasria amid mutants and hazmat henchmen to save the world from a viral infection hoping to be employed by a madman. Please R&R. TFR.


**PREFACE**

_Dark Sector: the Lotus's Venom_ is a fan-fiction piece based on the recently released "Dark Sector" video-game for the 360 and PS3. While I do follow the plot in its basics as well as the protagonist Hayden Tenno, I also omit many in-game characters and scenes to replace them with my own. Thus _Lotus's Venom_ focuses mostly on Tenno's transformation process once infected—where the story begins—both physically and mentally. It also, obviously, descriptively chronicles his hazardous adventure in Lasria to uncover the truth behind Robert Mezner's plan to distribute the viral infection and why exactly he himself has yet to completely succumb to the disease's total force.

Includes graphic bloody violence and gore, some strong language, and in film what would be described as 'disturbing images.' Not for the faint of heart, as some might say.

**1: IT HURTS**

It hadn't been the creature's spear-like right arm which caused the most pain, even upon puncture of his skin. But once its own infectious metallic hide had entered his flesh, there was no stopping the disease. It spread into his bloodstream instantaneously, virally overwhelming his immune system and mutating his flesh within seconds. He had lain there on the floor, Robert Mezner towering above him with scornful eyes, whilst the infection consumed his shoulder. The wave of heat from the disease took over him, jumpstarting his perspiration cycle and sending shudders of pain throughout his entire body. His nervous system blinked sporadically as he clutched at his shoulder, unable to regain his footing let alone move any more than thrash about on the ground like a marionette, as if he were a paraplegic. After a while his floundering ceased and he'd began to slip into unconsciousness; and, as he did so, the agonal pulsating didn't seem to stop even then.

But since he had awoken, Hayden Tenno was at least capable of moving. Walking, perhaps, wasn't the best term for it; it was a staggering trudge, while he kept his left hand on his right shoulder, which throbbed with a stinging pain and did not look all too well, either. It had gone from Hayden's innate pallor to a dark ruddy-brown, the color of dilapidated skin and damaged tissue. Shreds of his underlying muscle, gradually mutating from the infection, could be well seen beneath the sheen of bloodied epidermis. The look went with the feel, which stretched from his shoulder to the tip of his fingers on his right arm. Though his hand felt less agonal than his scapula, which was too pained to move, there was a steady prickling sensation in his palm that he couldn't quite place.

He had just been infected, by something of the likes he had never seen before.

It had stood at least seven feet tall, a man most probably, encased in a metallic power-suit with a curve-snouted helm and a spear-like right arm. It had incited fear into Tenno upon initial sighting, although he sought to destroy it nonetheless with an RPG; upon a telekinetic response of defense, Tenno realized he was far deeper than he had thought.

And now, look at him. He was infected, and he still hadn't completed his mission…

Or, at least, not his secondary mission—to eliminate Mezner, who reportedly is attempting to tame the infected beings for use as a viral weapon on a global scale.

And Tenno just couldn't have that; given, it was really his American governmental employers who wouldn't have it, but fortunately for them Tenno was just as dissatisfied with Mezner's activity. This made him that much more lethal during his goal-oriented itinerary, although it seems more than likely that this infection could—and would—significantly slow him down. Kill him, if he were so unlucky.

"I'd rather die than become one of those _things_," Tenno had previously stated so vehemently when discussing the possibility of him becoming infected whilst on this mission.

"That is only a rare, but contingent, option—of which is not quite in your hands, Tenno," his superior had replied. "Given, after being infected most lose all ability to feel and react the way humans are capable of…but many have been known to have a stronger immune system than others, thus giving way to the virus much more slowly than the typical host. But, ultimately, they _do_ turn; and, if they don't turn, most often, because their immune system spends so much time on defense it gets worn down significantly…and the host dies. If that's what you meant, then, yes it's a possibility—but it's rather uncommon."

"Then I'd shoot myself, end it all before I turn—"

"Supposing that you'd have enough control over yourself after the infection hits your bloodstream—a very unlikely chance."

Tenno had a lot to say about that now. He had yet to fully succumb to the virus, let alone really much at all; he could still move, though barely, and his thoughts and emotions remained all the same. The pain, too, despite its gradual decline which he found bizarre, remained lingering in his flesh and nerves.

Most of all, above all else, his head hurt. His temples thudded against his skull and he felt as though something was ricocheting around his brain, giving him the worst migraine he's ever experienced. This 'symptom,' he decided to call it—a chemical result from the infection—unfortunately did not come alone. Instead, it came associated with keen hearing, smell, taste, and oddly enough distorted eyesight. He could hear the faintest of sounds around him, as he lumbered with staggering footwork down the cobblestone path of the deserted Lasrian market, which included each grasshopper's chirping amplified tenfold in his already throbbing eardrums. He could smell, too, the dreadful stenches of more than just what reeked through the bowels of nigh manholes and ewer gutters, but something else altogether—a fetor unlike anything he'd ever smelt before, strongest of all else, like a midway-decaying corpse or week-old carrion.

Perhaps that was just him, and his damned arm.

Penultimate were the tastes which swam amid his tongue and throat. Though his mouth was arid, theses tangs were slimy and utterly revolting. As if he'd swallowed a chunk of feces or some of that carrion he swore he'd smelt; regardless of what it tasted _like_, it was lingering in his mouth and as much as he desired to regurgitate he couldn't for whatever reason bring himself to do so. And in the midst of the sordid flavors were the tastes of things around him; he could taste the dew which hung in the air, he could taste the bloodshed a mile away, for chrissakes he could taste the greasy asphalt upon which he walked…all in all, he would prefer back his normal sense of taste.

Moreover, he was hungry. Perhaps some buttered rice, a loaf of Italian bread…

Lastly came the sight. Why was everything so acute, yet his vision was so blurred and twisted? He knew it was a negative symptom from the infection, that much was evident. And while he wouldn't have on any other day contested to his current vision's status, comparing it to his more enhanced—though presently repugnant—senses, he saw it as nothing more than peculiar.

His peripherals—both left and right, top and bottom—were unnaturally distorted. A mix of yellow, orange, green, and red neon colors curled around these regions of his vision, limiting his eyesight dearly and furthering his headache. Besides that, everything was blurry. Even though he walked slowly, with his head hung low but eyelids ajar, anything in his vantage was just a passing blur of reality. He saw two or three of anything and everything once his vision did happen to narrow, so in the end he was left with little to nothing of eyesight.

Tenno's thoughts—his conscience—on the other hand, bustled with activity.

Whether or not all of this was lucid did not arrive as significant to him. All he was thankful for was that he remained alive—however 'alive' he could possibly be, given his current state—and not completely infected, or at least not to the point of absolute mutation. Just the same, he had power of his mind. He still had his memory, which was one thing he was most fortunate for; he still knew why he came here, why he _is_ here—and _why_ he's remaining on the objective trajectory.

Mezner was his goal, his target. But now he had a vindictive meaning to it all, making him more headstrong than ever before.

First, however, he needed to regain his strength. He did not know how, or even if, this were possible, but he would remain as optimistic as possible until it came about…if it ever did. For now, he just needed to continue, in spite of the woe, hoping to wear it out as it did feel something as such was occurring.

Nonetheless, it still _hurt_. He had just been infected, for chrissakes, he knew it was reasonable for the painful twinges jolting through every nerve in his body…but as to why it had only affected his arm, and why he remained substantially 'intact' after such an excruciating confrontation and interaction with the infection, he did not know.

He was sure, however, to find out. Even if it was the last thing he did…

Other than killing Mezner, of course.


End file.
